


Nor Iron Bars a Cage

by R Olivia Brown (Lexin)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, M/M, Possible non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-10
Updated: 2011-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-16 20:39:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexin/pseuds/R%20Olivia%20Brown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Avon is captured by the Domo slavers and sold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nor Iron Bars a Cage

**Author's Note:**

> You can take this story two ways: it's either BDSM, of a sort, or it's non-con.
> 
> This story came from the 1994 zine Red Rose 1. The sub-title of Red Rose 1 was "Because Roses have Thorns". The squeamish should therefore consider themselves warned.

There was something in Avon that still couldn't believe it had happened. Though captured by the Domo slavers he had trusted the Scorpio crew to rescue him before Servalan-Sleer could take him but in the event, Servalan had not been the highest bidder.

Oddly, the first thing his new owner had done was to remove the teleport bracelet - or rather to have it removed - for he couldn't believe this pudding-face had Xmillion credits. If only Vila had not been operating the teleport and if only Vila had not been his usual drunken self, Avon would not now be here. Wherever 'here' was.

He could tell he was on board a ship, the slight vibration was unmistakable and the room he was now in was - self evidently - a cell, a very small cell, with cool bare metal walls. With the exception of his shoes and the teleport bracelet he was fully clothed.

Avon dimly remembered being rendered unconscious. He had been standing, silent and disbelieving when he felt his ... buyer ... touch his arm; just that small touch had been enough to knock him out. He wondered how long ago that had been, but thought not long because he was only faintly hungry. A puzzle also, quite what they had used to gain such an immediate result.

Avon was lying curled on his side, the room not being quite big enough to lie flat in, and was suddenly aware of his muscles aching from lying on the hard metal as he pulled himself unwillingly into a sitting position. As he did so he gave a quiet groan of pain, a sound that was instantly deadened by the smallness of the room. He could feel the cold metal striking up through his sox and he shivered. He was curious to know why he was imprisoned here and how long he would wait for release.

A voice, male and quite soft, spoke, sounding over-loud after the silence. "Stand." Avon shook his head, both in refusal and disbelief and the voice repeated the instruction, "Stand."

There was a long pause while Avon did nothing of the sort, then the voice came again, "Disobedience requires punishment, slave." Without further warning an electric shock passed through the floor of the cell and Avon cried out with pain and surprise. "Now, stand."

Avon struggled painfully to his feet and waited for his next instruction. After a few heartbeats it came, "Strip." Once again Avon delayed and once again a shock ripped through him. More prepared this time he made no sound, even when the punishment was repeated.

Smiling very slightly, the prisoner unfastened his jacket, removed it, placed it on the floor and stood on it. The voice spoke again, "Not stupid anyway. Good, I would have hated to waste so much money on a stupid slave, however decorative."

Avon became increasingly irritated. He was hungry, he needed to piss and he was bored. The jacket was too small to sit on with any degree of comfort and experimentation showed that he couldn't stretch his legs out, the painful jolts of electricity were still going through the floor at random intervals. He considered taking his trousers off, but that would merely imply compliance with his instructions, something he was anxious to avoid.

"Want to eat yet?" The voice came without warning, making him jump. "I guarantee you can't sleep through the punishment, either. Obedience has its rewards, slave."

Avon stood and unfastened his trousers, pulling them off slowly and unwillingly. He followed them with the rest of his clothes, he thought he had finished but the voice spoke again, "And your sox, slave."

Sighing, Avon complied. "Now pick them all up." Avon did so and a door opened in the smooth surface of the cell wall.

On the other side of the door a man waited, arms folded across his broad chest. On seeing him the vague sense of recognition Avon had been aware of on hearing the voice coalesced and he spoke. "Blake? Blake, what are you ..."

He was silenced by a sharp blow on the mouth, not from a hand, the man had been carrying some sort of flexible probe or whip, some two feet long. "I have not given you permission to speak, slave." Surprised, Avon dropped the clothes he had been carrying. "And pick those up." When Avon didn't obey immediately, the

man raised his voice, "Do it!"

"You see that waste chute?" the man - Blake - indicated.

"Yes."

Immediately he was corrected, "Yes Master."

A second blow to the mouth reinforced the correction. There was a long pause, then Avon whispered, "Yes ... Master."

"Put the clothes in the chute. Now."

Avon did so, then turned back, covering his genitals with his hands.

The man walked round him, slowly, then touched Avon's face with the metal probe, tilting his face with it so he could look at him properly. "Well, you're pretty enough. Now, slave, uncover yourself."

"My name's Avon," the prisoner said, icily.

"Was it?" The man sounded quite indifferent. He applied the probe quickly to each of Avon's shoulders, it delivered a jolt of energy that caused him to lose all strength in his arms, they fell to his sides, uncovering his genitals. "That's better. I am your master and you will address me as such. You belong to me now, slave, and if you disobey me you'll be punished. You exist to serve me, and that is all you exist for, you experience pain and pleasure, sleeping and waking at my whim. Every breath you take is a gift from me." It took some time, at least a minute, longer, for Avon to be able to move his arms again. "There are facilities here, use them."

Avon waited for his master to go, finally realising that he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. He turned to the facility and urinated, relieved that he did not need to do anything else just yet.

His master indicated Avon should precede him and opened another hidden door. This led to a large but spectacularly untidy cabin. Avon paused just inside and the master gave him a light shove from behind to make him move further into the room. Avon turned to face him, automatically covering himself once again. "Blake, why are you doing this?"

The master slapped him across the face hard enough to make him gasp with pain, and applied the probe to his shoulders again. "Address me as Master. Always. For your information, slave, my identity is none of your concern."

"You're joking ...." catching sight of the man's face, Avon reluctantly added, "Master."

"Far from it, slave. You will clean this room, and clean it thoroughly, understand?"

"No."

Once again the master slapped Avon across the face, "Proper address, slave. I doubt you could misunderstand such a simple instruction, so I imagine that was a refusal. A big mistake, disobedience is punished." The master strolled across the cabin to the bed and picked up a belt, folding it in two. "Will you reconsider?"

Avon looked at the heavy belt with misgiving. "No," he said, but backed away slowly.

The master stopped him, grasping him by the arm. Avon struggled hard, escaping for a moment, but was almost immediately recaptured and felt the probe being applied yet again. His arms went limp and he felt something fasten round first one wrist then the other. He was frightened, he had not expected to lose this fight but the man was stronger and quicker than he had expected, and Avon fought all the harder using his legs as well as he was able until they also were weakened by the probe, then captured and tied. Avon was pleased to hear the master breathing more quickly as he was thrown across the bed, but the fear returned when he heard the belt being readied.

The first blow caught him across the buttocks and caused him to cry out in pain and shock, the blow was repeated again and again until he screamed, then the master moved his attention to his back and shoulders, whipping him until he cried out once more. Suddenly the beating stopped and Avon slid down, his bruised body hitting the floor with a bump causing him to whimper with the pain.

The bindings round his wrists and ankles were swiftly undone and he was pulled up to stand in the centre of the cabin, swaying slightly from the shock. The master's voice was quiet and deadly. "Slave, you will clean this room very thoroughly. If you don't obey me the punishment will be repeated until you do."

Avon closed his eyes and when he opened them the master was gone, he was alone. He sat down on the floor, quite slowly, feeling the pain from his back once again. Looking around he saw a carafe of water standing open on the table with a glass. He was thirsty and needed the drink very badly, but moving over to it caused him considerable pain and for a time he sat at the desk taking slow sips.

The room took some time to clean and tidy. He decided to comply in the master's instructions - only partly to avoid punishment. As he tidied the room Avon searched every drawer and cupboard, every item of clothing was shaken out and sorted through, each of his master's personal belongings was examined minutely before being put away. He found no sign that his master was Blake - and nothing at all to prove that he was not.

The prisoner sat on the end of the newly made bed, his body aching miserably; he was exhausted, more so than he could ever remember being before, even after a long period of insomnia. Possibly the probe had a secondary function, rendering him weak.

Avon had not been resting long when the master returned. Feeling obscurely that it was expected of him the prisoner stood as the master entered the room and looked around. "Well done, slave. Now put it all back exactly as it was before. Exactly."

"But ..."

"Yes, slave?"

"Why?" The master stared at him for a moment and Avon tried again. "Why, Master."

"There is no reason. You do not have to think, merely obey."

Avon sighed and started to pull his work apart feeling inexpressibly weary and all the while the master watched from the chair by the desk. At last he said, "I have finished."

He was corrected immediately, the correction reinforced with the probe, the jolt causing him to yelp with pain. "You have not. That coat," he indicated a heavy embroidered jacket, "was over there. That shirt," he indicated the one Avon had put back across the bed, "is the wrong one." The prisoner rectified his errors. "Better, slave." He surveyed the prisoner for a moment. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

The probe was applied to his leg this time, causing him to drop to one knee. Avon sighed yet again. "Yes, Master."

"You will be corrected every time until you get it right. You are a slave and I am your master, the sooner you remember that on your own the better. Now, you're hungry, follow me." The master led the way from the cabin and after a moment's pause during which he hauled himself to his feet, Avon followed.

Almost as soon as they were outside the cabin the master stopped as a tallish, fair man addressed him. "Sir ... we are approaching base."

"Thank you, Jarvik. I shall be there presently."

Jarvik's eyes took in Avon standing, naked, behind his master. The expression on his face betrayed an obvious appreciation and Avon felt his whole body enveloped in a scalding blush. "He is very beautiful, sir," the man commented.

"But it seems he has no manners," said his master, tartly, jolting Avon's hands away from his genitals. "Hands by your side, slave."

As they walked away Avon was horribly aware that Jarvik's hot, unsteady gaze was still on him. Once in the galley he was relieved to be away from it. The master sat down on one of the many empty chairs.

"Food," he said. "While you're there you can get me a drink - tea, I think. You can have the same. The food for you is in the processor."

By this time Avon was hungry enough to obey without question, bringing the hot cups and a covered bowl to the table. He handed one cup to his master, uncovered his own meal and picked up his spoon but before he could eat his master grasped his wrist. "Ask," he said.

"May I eat now, Master?"

The master let go of his wrist. "You may."

The meal consisted of a slightly salty porridge, though dull after a time it was not unappetising, at least filling and much needed after his long fast. The tea was the most welcome part of the meal, the real thing, something he had not had since he left Earth, and it was hot and reviving. The master watched him eat with a lazy interest Avon could not identify. While it certainly lacked the intensity the man Jarvik had shown he was still not comfortable with it.

As soon as he had finished his meal the master stood, and Avon followed suit, unwillingly. The galley door opened to admit a slim young woman. For a dislocated second Avon thought it was Cally, but then he saw this woman was slightly taller, her hair fairer and trimmed in a shorter style than Cally had usually favoured.

The woman seemed embarrassed, he thought more by the master's presence than by Avon's nakedness, though she too looked Avon up and down slowly and appreciatively. "Ah ... sir, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here."

"No matter, Arlen."

"Sir, we will be approaching base soon.

"So Jarvik informed me. Come along, slave."

The master led him back to the cabin. Once inside, he took a comprehensive look round "This place is a mess. Clean and tidy it at once."

"Why?"

The master struck him across the face, a full handed slap that echoed round the cabin. "You're to serve me, not ask questions. Get on with it!"

Avon sighed. "As you wish."

The master gripped Avon's arm painfully. "As you wish, Master. I want no insolence from you. Say it!"

"As you wish, Master," Avon repeated obediently. It seemed clear to him that the man was quite mad.

"Well done. So, clean it."

This time it didn't take him nearly as long, most of the work had already been done once and he finished in time to be aware that the ship was landing, a planet or at least a planetoid, and he allowed himself to consider possible escape plans - they had to be most vulnerable while landing or taking off, there was almost bound to be some chance of getting away.

***

The ship had landed some five hundred metres away from a base of sort, Avon could see it's lights clearly in the surrounding gloom and he could see also that the fence around the base was not quite continuous. He spared a thought for possible reasons for this omission, but was too tired to think about it. As soon as they were away from the ship and the master's attention seemed to be distracted by something the woman Arlen said, the prisoner ran for it.

Avon very nearly did not stop in time to save himself, the curious noise he had been aware of almost from the moment he left the ship was simply explained - the sea; and the fact that it was dashing against rocks at the base of a high cliff explained the short fence. Avon turned, in time to see his master run towards him. That run, that particular gait, all said 'Blake' to him far more powerfully than anything else: he could feel a sickening, tearing sensation inside, combined with a powerful need to act and a feeling of something left undone. He couldn't breathe for it, and blackness claimed him.

***

He came round inside another cell. He was naked, as he had been when he made his bid for freedom and he smiled at his own stupidity, he did not recall having taken that into account before he ran, or maybe he had, he couldn't really remember.

This cell was bigger than the last, it was physically possible to lie flat, but on a cold concrete surface that prospect was not particularly appealing. Once again it was quite bare, there was no sleeping surface and not even a blanket to cover himself, but along one wall two pipes ran parallel to each other, creating a possible though rather uncomfortable seat and along another wall at just above head height ran a third.

Avon hauled himself up and stood, feeling once again his aching limbs and the bruises on his back and buttocks caused by the earlier beating. On waking he had been certain of the identity of his master, but he couldn't make the memory of his treatment so far accord with the memory of the man he had known on the Liberator, the man obsessed with freedom and choice. At the time he had thought the days on and before the Liberator the hardest he had ever known, now the memory beckoned almost like the prospect of a pleasure planet.

He tested the pipes before sitting on them, but even so the moment he trusted his weight to them one broke with a sharp snap, precipitating a flow of stinking water onto the floor of the cell. The water was freezing cold against his unprotected feet and the feel of it caused him a shudder of disgust. It also made him want to urinate, he couldn't help himself, but the knowledge that he had done so and now had to live in his own muck disgusted him. He leant against the unbroken bar not quite willing to give this his full weight in case it should break like the other. It was warm, too warm to lean against for long but he shivered, for his feet were still in the freezing water.

The idea of sleeping in this filthy place was obviously quite out of the question. Seeing the broken bar Avon picked it up, shuddering once more at the feel of the muck on the floor and hefted it to get some idea of it's potential as a weapon. It was not really heavy enough, but if he could surprise whoever came in, he might gain enough time to get away. He settled down to wait.

The time passing gave him the chance to examine the cell. The door seemed to be a metal surround with a concrete infill and it fitted flush to the wall, no sign of hinges and the only opening was a grille in the bottom, which provided his only source of fresh air. No chance of escape there, the fastenings to the grille must be on the other side, and even were he able to open it with the pipe he was too large to get through. Nor was he given any hope by the flush-to-the-ceiling light fittings, an experimental blow from the pipe showed the covers to be plastiglass, practically unbreakable. The lights inside would be Permalunes, found all over the Federation and supposed by the manufacturers to be everlasting. The fact that one had ceased to function showed manufacturers to be wrong and though it made the cell rather dim Avon found the fact comforting. Their mere presence also gave him hope, they showed he was in Federation space, or at the very least, what had been Federation space before the wars.

The closer look he gave to the cell also showed that the lights were fitted with a sensor array. Interesting, and implying that the room had been constructed as a cell rather than being a storeroom which had been converted into a cell. They provided him with little hope for escape, but showed him that at least he had some means of communicating with his captors.

As far as he could tell he was quite alone, no footsteps passed along the corridor outside, and there were no cries as there had been so often during his period of interrogation by the Federation. In some ways he was reminded of his five days of torture while waiting for Shrinker, but the Federation had never been so crude in their methods. He sighed. Perhaps if they had been, he would not have held out for so long, but psycho-manipulation techniques had never worked well on him. Thrusting the thought from his mind he straightened, deciding that these cruder methods would prove as unreliable as any others.

He did not know how long he had been there. No food had been provided and he was ravenously hungry once more. His feet were cold from the half inch or so of water on the cell floor, and the skin had softened making the uneven concrete uncomfortable to stand or walk on. He wanted to sleep nearly as much as he wanted to eat, an unusual sensation for him. The smell from the hideous mess on the floor had long since ceased to trouble him, he no longer even noticed it.

Suddenly there was a noise at the door and the grille opened. Something - a metal bowl - was pushed through and it closed again with a rattle. Avon crossed the cell and picked up the bowl. Only a little had been spilled, it was the same slightly salty porridge as the master had given him before, but this time he had no spoon with which to eat. Though he was disgusted it took him only a moment to decide to eat with his fingers.

Once he had eaten he longed for sleep, but the very idea of lying on the wet ground horrified him. Eventually, utterly exhausted, he had to sit, but almost as soon as he had done so several more litres of the filthy water poured from the pipe into the cell, most of it over Avon. He jumped up with a whimper of disgust. Then the voice came, surprising him. "I imagine that by now, slave, you are sorry that you tried to escape. But are you sorry enough?" Avon said nothing and the voice came again, "Answer me, slave. Are you sorry enough?"

Avon knew he had no chance of escape if he remained in the cell, so he lied. "Yes. Yes, I'm sorry."

"Obviously not." There was a slight click as contact was broken.

Avon leaned miserably against the wall and sat down slowly, this time he hardly noticed the wet floor. He wondered if the master was listening to him, to his every sigh and the slight plash of the water as he moved.

At irregular intervals the pipe disgorged more water into the cell, until when Avon stood it lapped against his ankles. He shivered from the cold but kept himself as warm as he could by holding the hot pipe, though it meant that when the water flowed in it hit Avon, flowing down him in rivulets, dripping off his body hair. Then the voice came again. "Are you sorry enough, slave?"

Avon forced himself to say it convincingly. "Yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master."

"Sorry for what, slave?"

"I'm sorry I tried to escape, Master."

"Will you do it again?"

A pause, then Avon answered more quietly, "No, Master."

"Tell me again, slave."

"I'm sorry, Master. I won't try to escape again, Master."

"I think you're lying." And the contact was broken again.

Avon had rarely cried in his adult life, but he nearly did now. He leaned against the wall, his face in his hands. After a moment he picked up the bar.

He waited a long time, but at last there was a noise as the door was opened and Avon looked up. Both the master and Jarvik stood there, outlined in the bright light from the corridor. "Put the bar down," the master ordered, "and come to the door." Silently, Avon complied. It seemed that the cell was in a corner of a closed in area and he could see that Jarvik was holding something which snaked out behind him but he couldn't quite see what. "Stand in the corner and face the wall."

Avon did so, a little unwillingly. Almost at once he was hit in the back with a powerful jet of cold water and he gasped in shock and pain. He was told to turn around and struggled to obey as the flow moved up and down his body.

"He's clean enough," his master said at last and Jarvik switched off the water, leaving Avon exhausted and dripping.

"This way, slave," said the master leading him away. Avon followed without comment, he was too tired to dredge up any coherent thought.

The corridors they walked through seemed long unused, the dust was quite thick in places and it stuck to Avon's wet skin, but at last they reached what seemed to be a living area for the base personnel, it consisted of small self contained flats, rather than barrack rooms or offices, and the master led him into a bedroom, also clearly long unused. On the floor was an old mattress covered with a blanket, this the master indicated with his foot. "You will sleep here, slave." The prisoner stumbled over to it and sat down. "Have you no gratitude?" the master asked, in a tone of hurt incomprehension.

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master." Avon lay down and slept. For once in his life it was easy.

***

Avon thought he must have been unconscious for some hours, but even so when he awoke his master was there, waiting for him. On the floor was a tray and Avon could smell food. His belly rumbled and he sat up slowly.

He reached for the tray and the master pulled it out of reach with the toe of his boot. "You have forgotten, haven't you, slave?"

"May I eat, please, Master."

"This will be my residence," the master ignored the question and indicated the bedroom and by extension the flat beyond it. "As you can see, it requires cleaning and as I have a slave, that's your job."

"Why should I?"

"I see you haven't learned much yet. You will clear out this flat and clean it thoroughly, unless of course you want to be returned to your late quarters. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

The master kicked him, hard, in the groin and he cried out. "Yes, what?" It seemed the master was beginning to get impatient with continually correcting him.

"Yes, Master."

The master tipped the tray over with the toe of his boot. "Go on then, eat."

The food was better this time, bread, cheese and fruit cut into small pieces convenient to eat with the fingers and though it was dusty from the floor, Avon ate hungrily.

"Better, slave?"

"Yes. Thank you, Master."

"Good. Start work now. Members of the base personnel are clearing other residences and they will help you move very heavy items out. They won't help you with anything else."

If Avon had ever had any idea about what form slavery might take for him, domestic servitude would not have been very high on his list of imaginings. Being a naturally clean and tidy person he had rarely spent much time on such things, but this! This was an entirely different proposition. Almost as soon as the master had gone Jarvik, Arlen and another person, a man they called Deva had arrived. Avon remembered Deva as being the master's agent on Domo, the one he had mentally nicknamed pudding-face. Seeing him again, he still considered it an apposite name.

Jarvik smiled on seeing him, but his was not a friendly greeting, rather the grimace of a predator, one that sees an easy kill. He closed in on Avon who backed away as far as he could go. Jarvik put his hand out and tilted Avon's face up and into the light.

"I'll say this for the master, he has excellent taste."

Jarvik pushed his groin against Avon's and rubbed against it suggestively.

"Does he, indeed?" Deva sounded as if he did not agree with Jarvik's assessment of Avon. "I know how much he cost and he isn't worth half of it."

"Let the slut go, Jarvik," the woman intervened, "we've work to do. Though he's pretty enough, Deva's not going to see it. He's jealous."

"Jealous!" scoffed the other.

"Yeah, you want the master's cock and this slut's got it instead, that's all."

"Has he?" Jarvik ran his fingers through Avon's hair. "Has he fucked you, pretty?" Avon didn't reply, so the taller man pulled his hair, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. "I asked you a question, you whore, so answer it!"

"No!" Avon shouted, "No, he hasn't!"

Jarvik gave Avon an open-handed slap that almost made his teeth rattle. "Don't take that tone with me, you worthless shit! And call me 'sir' when you speak to me! So, has he fucked you?"

"No, sir."

The man hit him again. "Liar!"

"What is going on?" The master's voice from behind Avon's tormentor.

"He was rude to me," the man tried to excuse himself.

"Oh?"

"He wouldn't call me 'sir'."

"Slave, you will address my people properly. I'll punish you for your rudeness later. Jarvik, if in future my slave is at all rude to you, or lazy, or unhelpful or even - Gods forbid! - disobedient, remember that you have no power to punish him and that I do not wish you to touch him in any way. He is not yours. If he is to be disciplined I will undertake it."

As soon as the master had gone, Arlen broke out into crowing laughter. "That told you, then!"  
Jarvik turned back to Avon. "You're still a pretty slut," he ran the back of his curved hand down Avon's cheek. "I usually prefer women, but I'd fuck you, given a chance."

"You wouldn't get a chance," said Avon.

"Don't you believe it," Jarvik told him.

"Oh, leave it!" said Arlen. "We've got work to do."

The four of them together managed to move all the ruined but heavy furniture out of the residence. Jarvik was heard to mutter several times that if only they could open the fixed plastiglass windows that formed one wall of the living room they could shove the things out, down the garden and over the cliff. Avon wondered if he had done this on purpose to draw the prisoner's attention to the fact that the garden ended in the cliff, but then reconsidered, he didn't think the man was clever enough to think of anything that cunning.  
The job took nearly all day, nothing seemed the right size to be removed easily and Avon wondered in passing how it had all been put in there in the first place. He was also worried by his nakedness which put him at a distinct disadvantage compared with the others, though for most of the day no one took the slightest bit of notice. Not, at least, until Arlen called out, "Ha! The slut's got a hard-on! Been thinking about the master again, slut?"

Avon reddened, he had been hoping it would not be noticed.

"Pretty prick he's got," Jarvik's voice, sounded lustful. "Though that's really Deva's speciality."

"Too small," said Deva, flatly.

Arlen laughed. "Not the master's you mean."

Jarvik groaned. "Leave it, Arlen. Don't you know to leave well alone?"

Once cleared out, the residence turned out to be a five roomed flat, a large living room with one glass wall looking out on the ocean, an equally large bedroom with only slightly smaller windows where Avon left his mattress and blanket, a room he supposed could only be a study as it had computer and communications contacts wired in, a bathroom and a small kitchen.

It was very dirty even with no furniture and Avon sat on his blanket resting before he started the cleaning, wishing he had something to eat. The others had left making plans for a meal, plans that had made Avon's belly rumble, and Deva had taken an obvious and intense pleasure in pointing out that Avon was forbidden to leave the flat, and in reminding him of his master's orders.

Avon hated them all and he would have killed any or all of them gladly, but his nakedness made it impossible for him to hide any sort of weapon and at no time had any of them been alone with him.  
He had been resting for only a few minutes when he became aware that once again he was not alone. Opening his eyes he was not too surprised to see his master looking down on him. He had changed his clothes, loose dark trousers, a loose shirt and an embroidered jacket reaching nearly to his knees had taken the place of the smooth dark leather he had worn on the ship. Once he was sure he had his slave's attention, the master spoke.

"It's not very clean yet."

"Give me a chance!"

"I did not give you permission to rest."

"You weren't here to ask!"

"And you seem to have forgotten your manners."

"Master," Avon mumbled, unwillingly.

"Good. As I said, I want the place clean. When it is clean, you will be permitted to eat and sleep. The longer you take over the job, the longer it will be before you can do either. I would have let you eat and rest now, but you were rude to Jarvik and you must be punished."

"What do I clean it with, Master?"

"Materials have been provided and they are through there." The master indicated the next room. "In the unlikely event you need to speak with me - to ask my permission to rest, for instance, the residence is connected to wherever I am by a comlink activated by the words 'Beloved Master'. Understand?"

"Yes, Master." Avon decided that he would not, for any reason, utter those words. Since his master seemed to be expecting it, he pulled himself up.

"Good. I find it's much easier to do that sort of job standing up."

Weary and unwilling Avon started work once more. He was beginning to hate these five rooms with all his heart and soul and to loathe the man who had set him this task with equal intensity. He had found a set of steps, which with the materials were indeed where the master had said they would be. By the time he had finished the bathroom, his hands were red from the water and the action of the cleaning liquids, and by the time he finished the kitchen his hands were both red and sore, and he was tired and aching from scrubbing and polishing. He was also dirty, in both kitchen and bathroom he had discovered problems with the drains and he suspected the master, whoever he was, would not be inclined to listen to excuses. He had an idea that the master was watching from whatever vantage point he had, and thus Avon did not dare to rest. The memory of the cold cell with it's filthy wet floor was still fresh in his mind and to avoid that he would undergo far more than a little cleaning and polishing.

At long last he finished and sat down again on the mattress in the bedroom, waiting for the master to arrive. He was almost asleep by the time he did, his eyes had closed, and he could feel himself drifting away.

"You have worked hard, slave."

Avon looked up to see the master smiling and his heart thumped uncomfortably, though whether from fear or something else he was not quite sure.

"Stand up, slave."

For a moment, Avon toyed with the idea of reminding his master that he had promised a reward, but his throat closed on the words and they would not come. He stood, as he had been ordered to.

"Follow me."

Once again Avon obeyed without question and the master led him out and into another much smaller flat, where a table had been laid out for a meal. "Before you get the wrong idea, I am going to eat and you are going to serve me. Understand that being permitted to serve in this way is a reward for your hard work."

"But, Master ..." The words came out before Avon could stop them.

"Are you daring to question me?"

"No, Master."

When the master had seated himself, Avon fetched the food from the kitchen and served him carefully. Though nothing had been said he was certain that he would be punished if anything were dropped or spilled and this added to his nervousness. He noticed that the master ate slowly and that he rarely finished all that he was given. No words passed between them, the master spent most of the meal reading what appeared to be paper documents, the sort Avon had only read about. He wondered what they could be and why they were important, even trying to catch glimpses of them while serving his master's wine or spooning vegetables. None gave any hint about his identity, which disappointed Avon.

"Thank you, slave. You can clear away, finish what remains and wash the dishes. Then come back here."  
Avon would never before have been tempted by another's leftovers but he was too tired and too famished to think about it. He took the dishes back to the small kitchen and ate all that was left on them hungrily. When at last he returned to his master's room the man was working at a desk, his back to the door. The master didn't acknowledge his presence and Avon swallowed and spoke. "Master?"

"Yes?"

"You wanted to see me again, Master."

"Did I? I don't remember why, but no matter. Sleep there," he indicated a thin mattress and a blanket on the floor in a corner. "I may remember and I can't be bothered to fetch you at this time of night. Go on then, sleep."

Avon's hesitation was caused by a sudden thought, more a memory. He had rarely slept with another present, not even Anna; he was surprised but her memory no longer caused him any sadness. Perhaps he no longer had any pity to spare.

***

He was woken up by a blow to his side and pulled himself into a sitting position groaning gently. He was immediately aware that his hands were itching unbearably from the work he had done the day before and every joint and muscle in his body ached abominably.

"Get up, slave."

"I'm getting tired of this! Stop ordering me about! I'm not your slave, or anyone else's."

"Get up, slave. Would you rather belong to Commissioner Sleer? I doubt it, I doubt it indeed. I think she had death in mind for you."

"How would you know?"

"I'm not a fool, slave."

"Are you Blake?"

"Who do you think I am?" The question was unexpectedly soft in tone.

Avon admitted the truth. "I don't know."

"I'm your Master. Don't forget it."

There was a soft tap on the door and it opened to reveal Jarvik, standing outside in a short sleeved shirt and dirty work trousers. "Sir?"

"Take the slave, he's to continue working in the residence section."

"Sir. This way, slave."

Once again, Avon was given cleaning to do. This time the flat had been cleared of the old furniture before he arrived and all he had to do was the cleaning and polishing, but when hot water touched his hands, Avon could not stop a shocked cry from escaping his lips. He instantly regretted it, the noise made Jarvik come back and the man stood leaning against the door jamb, watching him.

"Hurting, slut?" he asked.

"No," said Avon.

"I can make it better," offered the man, smiling.

Avon looked at him doubtfully. "For a price, of course."

"Everything has its price, pretty."

"Don't call me that."

"Call me 'sir', pretty, or I'll tell your master you were rude again. You want to go hungry for another day?"

"No, sir."

"Well, pretty, do you want me to do something about your hands?"

Avon didn't reply, it seemed obvious what Jarvik would demand in payment and he did not feel his pain required that. As Jarvik was there Avon decided to indulge his curiosity. "Sir, who is my Master?"

"You don't know?"

"I'm not sure."

"If he has not told you I'm sure he has his reasons."

Avon digested this for a moment, "What is he doing here?"

"Sir."

"What is he doing here, sir?"

"He's setting up a base."

"I had gathered that, yes. But what for?"

"Ask him, slave. Tell you what," the man strolled over and ran his hands down Avon's naked back and buttocks.

"I'll tell you - for the same price."

"I don't think I need to know that badly," said Avon, pulling himself away.

Jarvik brought his hand down on Avon's rump, harshly. "Have you ever been told you're a pricktease?"

"No, sir."

"I wonder your master doesn't just hold you down and rape you." Another blow fell. "You really need an ass full of a man's juice, it might teach you a lesson. The master told me to tell you that if you needed to talk to him, the same phrase as yesterday would get you his attention." With a third swat to Avon's exposed buttocks, Jarvik strolled out again.

The day passed. Avon unblocked another set of drains, feeling sick at the smell, scrubbed yet another set of dirty walls clean and another and another. By the end of the day - or what he supposed to be the end - he had harsh reddened places on his hands and he knew that if he had to spend another day like this he would have open and bleeding sores on them. In addition to that, his body was dirty and he was sure it was beginning to smell, he needed to shave very badly and the pains in his back were intense.

His master stood at the door to the flat, quite unruffled by Avon's scruffy appearance. He, in what the prisoner was sure was a deliberate comparison, was well dressed, clean and very composed. "This way, slave."  
Serving the meal, Avon was aware that he was being watched, though quite why he was not sure until the master spoke. "Slave, always serve from the left hand side. And don't make such a song and dance about it, the ideal of service is that it should be unobtrusive." It seemed his master intended that he should be able to at least serve a meal properly, what else he intended remained hidden, but Avon wondered.

Once each course had been served the master made him sit on the floor at his feet and Avon found himself staring at the master's shoes. He wore some sort of leather ones, laced in a style Avon had never seen before except in very old pictures and once in the museum in Yuropdome. They looked comfortable, but Avon was curious about them. The man's loose dark trousers tucked neatly into the tops created a baggy style that was most Blakean, almost too much so.

After his meal Avon returned to his master's room to find him once again sitting at the desk, working. As he came in the man leaned back, sighing and stretching. "Ah. Rub my neck, slave."

His master's neck was smooth and unblemished and Avon wondered if Blake's had been. He had no intimate knowledge of Blake at all, had never shared a cabin with him, or even a tent when on planet. Almost, he thought now, as if Blake had avoided being alone with him. Of course he hadn't, why should he?

"Ouch!" remarked his master, as Avon continued the massage. "Not so hard!"

"Sorry."

"Sorry, Master," he was instantly corrected.

"Sorry, Master," Avon parroted, obediently. Then caught his hand against his master's shirt collar and gasped.

"What's wrong?" The man took one of Avon's hands in his. "Hmmm, stand there." He opened a drawer, took out a small container, and opening it started to rub the medicated cream onto Avon's hands.

Almost at once the soreness and itching that had plagued him stopped and Avon smiled in genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Master." For the first time he used the title without sarcasm or forcing himself.

"You have worked hard, slave and you deserve a reward. Now, go to bed."

"What will I be doing tomorrow?"

The master patted his face, almost affectionately. "Let tomorrow take care of itself. Go on, sleep."

***

Next morning he woke refreshed, almost light hearted. The master had not woken him, he had been permitted to sleep until he woke naturally, an unexpected bonus.

Almost immediately the master noticed that Avon was awake and crossed the room to stand by his pallet. His outfit today was dark red trousers, a black shirt and a black embroidered jacket, the trousers and shirt flowed about him as he crossed the room. Avon stood up without being asked, feeling dirty and dishevelled.

The master spoke gently. "Today is to be an easy day for you. Clean and tidy this room, the adjoining bathroom and the kitchen along the passageway. You might as well start there."

Avon blinked, his eyes felt gummy, full of matter and he felt almost as if he were still asleep.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes. Yes, Master."

"Good. Go along then."

Avon longed to be as clean as the kitchen he was working on. Unobtrusively he cleaned his eyes as best he could and washed his mouth out with plain water. He was sure from the way his mouth tasted that he was getting bad breath, if he didn't have it already. He was also sure his body smelled, he had now been kept working at endless physically exhausting jobs without a proper bath for more than five days. Dimly, he remembered some pre-Atomic Queen of whom it was said that she was considered to be a very clean woman because she had a bath once a month whether or not she needed one and tried to comfort himself with the thought.

He had nearly finished when Arlen wandered in. "Ah, slave. Make me a drink."

Avon opened his mouth to say something sarcastic but remembered himself just in time, Arlen would have no compunction about reporting him to his master. Instead he said, "Madam?"

"Are you deaf, slave? A drink, now."

"Which drink would you like, madam?"

"Tea, slave. I trust you can manage that?"

For a moment Avon considered spitting in it while making it, but then thought again. He made her tea, while she watched him. As he handed her the drink she said, "Doesn't your master ever have you wash, slave?"

Avon thought for a moment. "He has never given me permission to wash, madam." He hoped that would shut her up.

"Have you ever asked him? You haven't, have you?"

"No, madam."

"Why is that? Are you afraid he'll whip you?"

"No, madam."

"Why does he like his fuck-slave dirty?" Arlen asked. Avon couldn't think of an immediate reply to that and said nothing. "I asked you a question."

Avon had to reply, wished he could think straight. "He doesn't ... doesn't ... fuck ... me."

She laughed. "Are you joking? How could he not fuck you?" She looked him up and down slowly, while he blushed with shame. "Still, maybe he's saving you for a special occasion. Federation Day, perhaps."

"Is he a great supporter of the Federation?" Avon hoped he sounded sufficiently naive.

"Him? Not that I ever heard. Finish your work, slave or you'll be feeling his whip. And your skin would look so lovely marked, I'll have to tell the master so."

"Don't trouble yourself on my account."

"The pleasure is all mine, slave."

As he turned back to the kitchen Avon wondered if she would lie about him to the master - and it wouldn't be all lies, he had been sarcastic, rude to her. From the tone of her voice he had an idea that Arlen would love to see him, as she said, 'marked'.

To his disappointment he had to work around his master when he started the other room, but about halfway through the man seemed to remember something that needed doing elsewhere and left in a hurry. Avon sighed with relief and continued his work with a lighter heart. The man's absence enabled him to search once more for any clue to his identity, or more precisely, any clue that he was actually Blake.

Once again every item of clothing had to be searched, every drawer gone through, the contents of every cupboard examined. Finding a stack of pictures Avon thought his luck had turned, but though they shocked him, they were not what he had so diligently searched for. Each depicted an act of sexual intercourse and though both parties were men and neither were his master they provided an insight into his character. In every picture one of the men was bound, restrained in some way and was submitting to penetration by another, usually with an expression of joy or at least pleasure.

To his embarrassment, Avon felt himself becoming erect as he flicked through them. He did not think he had any desire to take part in the activities shown, and sincerely not as the submissive partner, but he realised, sickly, that he might have no alternative. Despite his conscious feelings his penis seemed unrepentant, taking a long time to go down and reasserting itself whenever he thought of the pictures.

There was a drawer Avon could not open and he searched the top of the master's desk for something that would serve as a lockpick, finally finding a small screwdriver. This he inserted into the old fashioned lock as Vila had shown him so long before. The lock clicked back and Avon slid the drawer open, his belly crawling as he did so. He slid it back again almost at once and with shaking hands, re-locked it only just in time. There was no clue to the master's identity there.

"Haven't you finished, yet?"

"Nearly, Master." Obedience was suddenly easier to find and while Avon knew why and hated himself for it, indicting himself for his rank cowardice, the contents of the drawer could not be forgotten so easily.

"Good."

Avon sighed and finished his cleaning. He wished he could escape but there was nowhere a naked man could hide a weapon. He had tried last night to make himself break the man's neck during the massage he had given, but had found he was unable to do so. Still not knowing why he was angry with himself, he knew that while aboard Scorpio he had not scrupled to kill and kill again, so why was that ruthlessness deserting him now?

For some reason his penis was erect again when he turned at last to face the master, but the man took no notice. "You've finished at last, slave. That took you longer than I thought it would. No matter, perhaps you are tired." That acknowledgement didn't prevent a further order. "You will serve my meal now."

"Master."

He laid the table with precision and served his Master's meal, striving for the unobtrusiveness he had been told was ideal. He was irritated to see the master examine the cutlery with frowning care.

"How are your hands?" The master asked, when Avon returned from the kitchen and his own meal. "Let me see."  
Unwillingly Avon permitted his master to examine his hands. They were not as sore as they had been, but were still dry and the skin was flaking. "Not so bad," the bigger man commented, calmly. "Right, take a shower and make sure you wash properly, including your hair and your teeth."

Avon stood, looking at him in astonishment.

"Go on! Move!"

It was wonderful to be clean again, Avon had loathed being dirty with all his heart and soul, but he couldn't help but wonder what his master had in store for him, whether this might lead to a change in their admittedly precarious relationship, one that from his point of view would be a change for the worse.

He re-entered the room clean and dry, but with some trepidation. He jumped when his master touched his hands again. "What's wrong with you?" the master demanded. "You're like a cat on hot bricks. Now, give me your hands."

Once again his master rubbed Avon's hands with cream from the jar, stopping the itching and the soreness. "Nice?" he asked. Avon nodded. "Good. Are you tired, slave?"

"A little, Master."

"In that case you can give me a neck rub and then you may sleep."

***

Next day it seemed that nothing had changed. His master sent him back to cleaning the empty flats, of which there seemed to be an infinite supply.

He was alone until Jarvik came in. Avon had not realised he was there until he felt a blow fall on his buttocks. The slave jumped and turned to face the intruder. "I see your master let you wash." Jarvik looked up and down the exposed body.

"He did ... sir."

"It's improved your manners at any rate."

Avon scowled at him but said nothing.

"Do you want to take me up on my offer?"

"What offer was that, sir?" Over Jarvik's shoulder Avon could see that the master had entered.

"Why, to tell you everything you want to know about him."

"And what do you want to know about me, slave?"

Jarvik jumped and turned at the sound of the master's voice. "He wants to know who you are sir," the blond informed him.

"Ah, we're back to that hoary old chestnut are we?"

"We never left it, Master." Avon couldn't help the insolent tone that entered his voice.

"Did we not? Thank you Jarvik, you can go."

With obvious reluctance, the blond left; master and slave were alone. The master touched Avon's face with the tips of his fingers. "You look much better clean."

"Do I ... Master?" Avon did not know what to make of that remark.

"Oh, indeed."

Suddenly the master became brisk. "I want you to give me a back rub, so you can leave that for the time being. I shouldn't really allow you the reward after your display of appalling manners, but my back hurts, which is more important."

"As you wish, Master."

With some internal misgivings Avon followed his master back to the small flat and watched as he removed his jacket - dark blue today - and his shirt. He handed Avon a tube of massage oil and the slave set to work.

"You're very good at this," the master commented after a while.

"Thank you, Master."

"Where did you learn?" he asked.

"I've back problems myself. You can't receive a lot of these without learning something about the way it's done." Avon hoped in a way that he would be asked more questions, but it seemed the master was content with that. He was also surprised, the master had never before betrayed any curiosity about his slave's antecedents.

The master's back was smooth and well muscled, more so than Avon had expected, the clothes the man wore made him seem heavier set, fatter than he really was. He was no longer surprised that this man had managed to overcome him on the day he'd been sold and he wondered how long it would take for the master to force on him the ultimate humiliation.

"Enough." The Master sat up. "Go back to your duties, slave."

***

He was not permitted to wash that night, or at all for the following five days. Avon started to think of murder again, to long for his tormentor's death. He spent his days miserably cleaning and scrubbing, washing the endless rooms of the base, unblocking toilets and polishing windows. He began to believe his life served no purpose other than to clean and if he was lucky, serve his master one meal a day. He also knew that once more, he stank. His mouth felt full of rubbish, he was sure others could smell him, his eyes were gummed and he seemed perpetually tired.

On the seventh day he decided he'd had enough. He did not want to get up and when he did and received the expected order to go back to his cleaning, he refused.

After a moment's apparent disbelief the master reached for him and used the probe he remembered so well and that was never far from his hand. With Avon's arms rendered useless his wrists were easily bound behind him.

"What are you going to do to me?"

"Punish you," said the master, as if surprised he should ask. He opened the locked draw in the desk and Avon whimpered almost in disbelief. The whip produced was about as long as the master's forearm, narrow and wicked looking. The master tipped Avon onto his face, bending him over the side of the bed. "I see I have treated you too well, and you are taking advantage of my good nature." The first blow fell and Avon cried out.

By the end he was sobbing with the pain. The master's blows had covered his buttocks, thighs, calves and even the soles of his feet. The master stood back and for a moment it seemed as though he was admiring his handiwork. Then he hit a comlink. "Jarvik."

"Here, sir."

"Come here now."

"As you wish, sir."

"Help me take this ..." he indicated the bound slave, "to the punishment cell."

"Yes, sir."

Avon fought back violently, he had an idea of where and what the punishment cell might be, but the combined force of Jarvik and his master proved too much for him and he was tossed into the cell. Jarvik picked his way across the water and cut the binding on his wrists then tied them to the bar above his head. He was left alone.

The fall into the cell had bruised him in several places, the worst was on his thigh where he had hit the broken bit of pipe and his back and legs which were on fire from the beating he had received. The cell still smelled disgusting, sickeningly so, and he was cold. There was no one to look at him, but perversely he felt more naked here than anywhere else.

The silence was absolute, there was no way to measure time passing. His arms were stretched above him and they started to hurt along with the rest of his body. He could either rest the muscles of his legs by standing with his feet flat on the floor, or rest his arms by standing on the tips of his toes and once more Avon felt increasingly hungry. He drowsed rather than slept, a true sleep was impossible. He kept being woken by the pull on his arms and this served to confuse his sense of time still more. He started to feel curiously lightheaded, the edges of consciousness became blurred and strange. Suddenly the room was filled with a bright light and Avon saw that the door was open.

It was a relief when a soft voice, Blake's voice unmistakably so, spoke to him. "Oh, Avon, my poor love!" The sympathy was tangible and he was suffused with a sense of gladness ... something he could not remember feeling since he was a small child. It brought tears to his eyes and he saw Blake approach him through a curious haze, so that he did not know if the man was real or not. When he felt the touch on his face and the tears spilled over onto his cheeks, the soft voice spoke again. "Don't cry, my love. I'm here with you now."

"But Blake, I have to kill you."

Blake said, "Have you, my love? That's unfortunate." He sounded amused and ironic; Avon could remember himself using that tone, but not why or when.

"You don't understand, I have to kill you."

"Why?"

"They told me to."

Blake unfastened Avon's wrists and pulled the man into his arms, it was warm there, he felt protected and safe. "What will happen if you kill me, Avon?"

"You will be dead."

"What will happen to you?"

"I will be free."

"What else?"

"I will be dead."

He felt Blake's lips touch his and wondered how the man could bear to touch, to be near, one who must smell as bad as he. He tried to pull away, to free Blake from this disgusting unwashed creature who dirtied his clothes, who stank. Blake's arms tightened around him. "Shh, my love," he whispered. "You're safe with me."

"But you aren't safe with me. No one is." Avon was quite desolate.

"Why will you be dead if I am?"

"Because ... I will ... have no reason to go on living."

"Ah. I see."

"But I have to kill you," Avon pleaded for understanding.

"Avon, I love you. And you belong to me, so you aren't free to kill me, because I won't permit it."

Avon relaxed against the other man. "Oh. That's all right then. I can't kill you because I must obey you and you won't let me. And while I do that, will you take care of me?" It did seem to make perfect sense.

"My love, of course I will. Now, come along, you can't stay in this terrible place."

"Why did you send me here?"

"Because you disobeyed. You had to be punished. But I think you've been punished enough now and I'm going to reward you."

"What for?"

"For not killing me. Come along."

Blake led Avon through the corridors of the base and to the flat he had first cleaned. It had been furnished since he had seen it last and Avon looked around curiously at the furniture, upholstered in a soft shade of blue and the warm beige carpet. "It's lovely," he said wonderingly.

"I'm glad you like it," replied Blake. "It will be your job to keep it nice."

He led Avon through to the bedroom and towards the bed with it's white covers. "Blake!" he protested. "I will make it all dirty!"

"It's washable. Come, lie down and let me hold you." Stunned, Avon obeyed. "Now, let me kiss you." At first Avon was unwilling to open his mouth, but finally he submitted to Blake's demands and the insidious sweetness of his kisses. He felt Blake manoeuvre him onto his back and lifted one knee to allow his lover an exploration of his hard cock and the soft sac beneath, not even protesting when a slick finger slide inside him.

"Are you going to fuck me?" Avon asked. He wasn't worried by the idea, more curious.

"No, my dear. I'm going to make love to you."

"Oh."

The entry of Blake's hard penis into his body was not as painful as he had been led by young men's folklore to expect it would be, it was more uncomfortable than actually painful. Avon wriggled a little to allow Blake to take full possession of him and quickly accommodated himself to the insistent thrusting of his lover's body and the feel of another's hand on his prick. The intensity of his orgasm was such that he hardly noticed his lover's, only realising it had happened when the softening organ slipped from him.

He was half asleep when he felt Blake rise from the bed and heard him come back. "What are you doing?" Avon asked, too tired to open his eyes.

"Don't bother moving, I'm going to wash you."

Avon obeyed the voice, trusting to it instinctively and enjoying the attention as the cloth moved over him, to be followed by a warm towel. He slept.

***

Waking, to a bright warm room, was something of a shock. He was still ravenously hungry and what had woken him was a smell, food. New bread, fruit, and coffee. He sat up, the events of the night before had become dreamlike, almost unreal and he wondered ... he wondered if it had ever happened, or if it had been a dream, some sort of wish fulfilment. Surely not? He had never had wishes like that and certainly not about Blake. He was no longer even lying on the bed, if indeed he ever had been, he was on a mattress on the floor in a corner of the large room.

What was preventing him from eating? He looked around and then waited for a few moments. As he sat he could feel the bruises from the beating he'd been given, his buttocks, thighs and calves all hurt. Finally he spoke. "Beloved Master?"

For a moment he thought he wasn't going to get a reply, then the voice came. "Yes, slave?"

"Master, may I eat?"

"Yes, slave."

The food seemed to Avon to be the most wonderful, the most perfect, he had ever tasted. He had almost finished when he saw his master standing by the door looking down on him and he was conscious of a feeling of pride, not in himself, for he knew he was dirty, stinking and unshaven, but his master was faultless. He was wearing a cream jacket, white shirt and loose cream trousers and these combined with his curly hair caused him to look almost angelic. At once the slave forgot about eating and stood, ready to do his master's bidding.

His master frowned slightly and Avon swallowed. He spoke, quite gently, "I don't like to punish you, slave. But I will if you disobey me." The pain in the soles of Avon's feet served as a bitter counterpoint to the words. He hung his head and was surprised to feel his master's hand slide along his jaw, rasping the stubble that was rapidly becoming a beard. "Come, slave, continue with your work. If you do well, I will see you this evening."

It took a long time for Avon to work the stiffness out of his muscles. He was still trying to work out whether the ... sexual encounter ... he remembered had been a dream or not and tried to tie in the muscular aches to his memory of the night before. Unfortunately he ached in so many places, any one of them could have been as a result of sex, or merely a response to having spent many hours tied up. He thought someone had cleaned him, but that also was hard to judge, his dirt was more background griminess than spectacular filth and the need to evacuate his bowel was more a sign that he had eaten recently.

He had only vague memories of what he had done. He didn't think he had done anything expect submit, but the memory of the kisses, his master's kisses, Blake's kisses, intruded, making him blush all over and causing his penis to rise. He climbed the steps and concentrated on scrubbing the top of the wall, trying to block out the memory.

"You look well today," Jarvik of course. Avon wondered irritatedly what Jarvik did for his master that allowed him to wander off whenever he wanted to in order to torment a slave. He said nothing.

"Still curious?" The blond ran his hand down the slave's back and buttocks in his usual caress. He reached out and grasped Avon's wrist, forcing him down the steps, looking at the still erect penis as he did so. Jarvik touched him intimately, rolling Avon's foreskin back to expose the head of his penis and pulling it down again slowly, making the invasion a caress and the caress an invasion.

"Don't ..." Avon said, trying to free his wrist.

"Ahh ... ask me properly, slave."

"Please ... sir ... don't do that."

"And why not, pretty?"

Avon swallowed. "My master wouldn't like it."

"And will you tell him?"

"Yes, sir."

The blond moved his other hand to the back of Avon's head, using a grasp on his hair to tilt his face to the light. "You know, I almost believe you would too. Has he started fucking you yet?"

A slight hesitation. "No ... sir."

"You don't seem too sure. Perhaps you've started to suck him off? Is that it slave? Do you feel his cock in your mouth, his spunk in your throat? With a mouth like yours how could he resist it? If you were mine, slave, you'd serve me in every possible way, starting the hour you were bought, on your back!" Jarvik pinned Avon against the wall and the slave resisted fiercely, finally reaching for the inside of the man's thigh and twisting his balls suddenly. With a yell of pain Jarvik let go. "You little bitch!" He knocked Avon to the floor and kicked him, hard, in the belly.

"What the hell is going on in here?" The master had entered, unnoticed by either of them. Even through his pain it occurred to Avon that he had a habit of doing that.

"That little hell cat attacked me!"

"Did he? Slave, get up!"

Avon struggled to his feet, still clutching his stomach, trying not to be sick. He leaned on the steps for support and waited.

"Jarvik, I have told you before, you are not permitted to touch my slave and you are definitely not permitted to punish him. He will suffer for his misbehaviour, but at my hands, not yours. You may go."

He turned to the slave. "And as for you ... do not attempt to use physical violence against any member of my staff."

"He tried to ..."

"Rape you?" The master stared at Avon. "Of course he did. Jarvik will fuck anything with a hole in it. And if I wanted him to have you I'd have allowed it long since. If he touches you again, call me. Now, carry on with your duties."

Avon found out what his punishment was to be soon enough. As dusk fell outside Arlen arrived. He was on his knees scrubbing a bedroom floor and as she looked down on him he moved to get up. She laughed, "You needn't bother, slave, the master says you're to remain here tonight. He doesn't need you, he's spending the night with Deva."

The night seemed very long, the room was warm enough but Avon had nothing to cover himself with, not even a blanket and the floor was too hard to sleep on with any degree of ease. It was almost as bad as lying in water in the punishment cell, certainly it was as painful. He supposed at least that this was his punishment, his master had told him that being allowed to serve him was reward for good behaviour. Avon discovered he missed that reward and was horrified to realise how very much.

In the morning it was Arlen again who told him to continue with his work, he did not see his master at all. He was saddened, then realised how absurd the feeling was, actually missing the man who forced him to endure pain and who heaped total humiliation on him. No, not quite total. He now believed the night he had submitted to Blake's caresses to have been a dream, his master could not be Blake, this man would eventually rape him. Admitting this to himself, the slave could not help but wonder what it would be like ... if the reality would resemble the dream of Blake.

The day passed, he was not fed and found that he worked more and more slowly. The morning seemed to drag on forever and the warmth of the afternoon sun shone in, as it did in the flat that his master had gone to so much trouble to furnish. He reasoned that the flat could not therefore be far away, it must be below him, the base was not so big that there was more than one residence block. He wondered if his master was there.

To give himself an excuse to stare out of the window Avon set to work cleaning it. He could see the garden of the flat a couple of storeys below, and as he watched he saw his master walk down the garden and stand almost at the edge of the cliff, staring out over the ocean. Avon looked down at him longingly, he could see the wind ruffle the soft curls of his master's hair and mould the dark baggy trousers to his strong legs. The dark blue jacket showed off his wide shoulders and powerful back and as he turned Avon could just see a pink vee of chest.

Blake looked up at him. Avon was sure from here that it was the rebel, it just couldn't be anyone else. He stopped polishing and their eyes met. As Avon felt blackness engulf him he was conscious of vertigo, pain and a feeling of falling and still that sense of having failed to complete a task he had been set, of there being school tomorrow and work yet to be done.

He woke to find himself on his back with his legs raised, they were resting on the bottom rung of the steps and he could see his dirty feet with the cracked and broken toenails and the bruises on the right instep where he had dropped a heavy can of cleaner. He was ashamed, he'd always had nice feet. His master was sitting beside him on the floor, legs crossed.

He dared to speak. "Master, are you Blake?"

The master looked at him for a few moments. "I have told you I am your master and that should be enough for you."

"Oh." The certainty Avon had felt on looking down had gone again, swept aside like spiders webs, washed away like the dirt on these residence walls. "What happened to me, Master?" Avon pulled himself into a sitting position.

"You fainted. Hunger, probably."

"Does that mean I can eat?"

"Take that tone, slave and I'll think you did it on purpose." His master's voice was light, joking, but Avon didn't miss the warning it held.

"Please, Master, may I eat?"

"Of course you may." The man handed Avon a milky drink. His voice was so kind that Avon's eyes filled with grateful tears. He hated himself for his weakness.

The slave found his voice. "What is this, Master?"

"It's a food concentrate, it contains protein supplements and extra vitamins. It will make you feel better."

"You haven't been feeding me properly, Master?"

The master cuffed him, lightly, but enough for it to sting. "Don't be rude."

While Avon sipped slowly at the hot drink, the other leaned against the wall, watching him with that lazy appreciation he had sometimes shown before. As soon as he had finished, the master stood and ordered him to carry on with his work. The slave sighed.

The flat was warm and oddly welcoming as Avon came in. He laid the table carefully and served his master's meal as he had been taught, proud that once again he had done well enough to be rewarded.

It seemed that his master was very pleased indeed with him, once he had eaten he was ordered to massage the man's back. Avon took his time over it, loosening each muscle group and as his oiled hands slid over the smooth skin Avon found he was enjoying the sensuality. His master seemed tense and Avon wondered, idly, what was worrying him, then reminded himself that it was none of his concern.

Though he lay beneath his slave's hands with his eyes closed, Avon didn't think the master was asleep, his breathing was regular but not deep enough for sleep and as he worked it seemed obvious that his touch was having an unforeseen effect, the man's breathing quickened with what Avon was certain was arousal. He felt a mixture of pride and fear, pride that his hands could give such pleasure and fear of what it might lead to.

At last he was addressed. "That's enough, slave. You can get some sleep now."

For a moment Avon was disappointed. He had screwed up his courage to face a sexual assault, and he felt perversely annoyed that he had been deprived of the opportunity to make his feelings known. He unrolled his mattress and lay down, spreading the blankets over himself, rolling into his preferred position and feeling their softness against his hard penis. He wished that he was alone, somehow the idea of masturbating with an audience did not appeal to him, even when that audience was his master. Why he had been prepared to orgasm with his master inside him, but could not do so with the same man merely watching him was ... peculiar ... to say the least, though Avon would have been hard put to say what was most peculiar about it. He also had an idea that he would need his master's permission to pleasure himself and he did not know quite how to phrase the request.

He wondered if his master was also in this odd quandary, he had certainly reacted to Avon, of that he was quite sure and the idea of that self-contained man lying there with a raging hard-on, unable to do anything about it because of Avon's presence was distinctly amusing. It also made him somehow sad. Why should such a man suffer in that way when the means existed for his relief?

He realised which way his thoughts were tending and was horrified at himself. He knew enough to know that his treatment so far had been intended to result in the annihilation of his self, to subsume his identity into that of his master and he was frightened to see how well it had worked. He was also helpless to stop it and was badly scared by the realisation.

He wondered what the point of it all was. His interrogation following the bank fraud had an obvious intention, to find the names of his co-conspirators and he had been able to withstand it. Shrinker's torturers had wanted only his name, and he had weathered that interrogation also. He had known that he could, and although the pain, physical and mental, had been intense he had known he could wait the length of time it took for Shrinker himself to arrive, had known that the agony would end when he did so. He was not even sure what his master wanted and could foresee no end to it.

To his astonishment, his master's first instruction on the following evening was that his slave should wash and shave. This treat had not been permitted him for well over a week and though he tried not to allow his joy to show he did not attempt to deny it even to himself. He wondered if the disgusting state of his body was finally beginning to tell on his master, but somehow he doubted it, the man's patience seemed infinite.

Clean and dry he knelt at his master's feet with pleasure, waiting patiently for him to finish eating. He wondered if his master would want a massage again tonight; he hoped he would, he wanted to touch the broad shoulders and to feel the strong muscles softening again under his hands.

He didn't, and Avon was badly disappointed. It was almost as if his master had let him down, but he told himself he had no right to expect any more than he was offered.

The following day was hard, the room he worked on was infested with some sort of large biting insect and the naked slave shuddered every time one touched his skin. The room stank, the walls were greasy and difficult to clean, the more so because every time he concentrated on his work the repulsive insects would distract him again.

At last he could stand no more. "Beloved Master?" He wondered if his master had even bothered to have the link moved into here.

A soft voice, sounding a little surprised. "Yes, slave?"

"Master, this place is infested, I need some insecticide."

"Really? I'll have some brought to you."

"Thank you, master."

It wasn't long before Deva arrived with a can of the required chemicals. "This is for you," he said dumping it on the floor. "Don't drink it all at once."

"Thank you, sir."

Deva took a comprehensive glance round the room. "Do the little bastards bite?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," replied Avon, indicating the marks on his legs.

"About time he gave you something to wear, isn't it?"

Avon hadn't given a thought to his nakedness for some time and was surprised to have it brought to his attention. He didn't know what to say, he no longer felt he had an opinion on such matters.

"Answer me!" Deva demanded.

"Sir?"

"Don't you want to cover yourself?"

"I think that's something for my Master to decide, sir."

"I don't know what he sees in you. You're not handsome and you don't seem clever, whatever he may say about you."

The slave remembered something Arlen had said about Deva being jealous of him and did not reply to that. "May I continue with my work, sir?"

"Go on then, slut."

The master was already present when Avon returned that night and the slave was embarrassed by his own grubby appearance. As soon as the slave arrived the master indicated he should sit on his pallet and wait.

Avon looked around, reflecting that he had not so far been permitted to clean this place, not since his first arrival at the base when he had been forced to scrub it out. His master sighed occasionally and Avon wondered what he was doing. None of the slave's tasks required real thought, he only needed to make the simplest decisions, obviously things were not so easy for his master and Avon wondered how he coped. He could barely remember how he himself had coped. He suspected not well.

Finally the master stood and stretched, then looked down. "Come, slave, you will bathe me."

"As you wish, Master." Avon stood and followed him into the bathroom, then assisted him in undressing. He knew his master was a powerful man, but the masculinity he displayed was daunting and Avon was quite envious of the strong arms and shoulders, muscular legs and powerful calves. In comparison he felt skinny, almost delicate.

He stepped into the shower beside his master and started washing him. His hair was straighter when wet and Avon carded the tangles with his fingers as best he could, trying not to pull his master's hair. He rubbed the soap into his master's chest and back with his hands and allowed the water to wash it away, then moved lower to his hips and loins, cleansing there also. He had become accustomed to cleaning walls, but for him there was nothing routine about this action, he was utterly fascinated by the responses of the body he was working on. The slave knelt to soap the legs, first the outside, then he moved his attention to the inside and up to the thighs, noticing that the hair was thinner here and at last he moved his hand up to the testicles daring to soap there also, finally washing his master's hardening penis, caressing it as he did so, wondering if the man would respond. The master grasped his wrist. "Don't be impertinent."

"Master?"

"You know what I mean. Now, cleanse yourself."

Avon did so, soaping himself rapidly and thoroughly and rinsing it away.

"Now you may dry me." Briskly, Avon obeyed the instructions and waited for more. "And yourself."  
He assisted his master to dress again and served his meal as usual, sitting on the floor between courses, expecting nothing more.

***

Avon wondered at his own contentment. Happiness was something he had rarely experienced, he had reached a point when he no longer expected it. He could dimly remember, as a young child, before school, before anyone had any expectations of him, being happy and content with himself. It seemed that the moment he had learned to read he had been labelled a genius and the work and the misery had started. He had been proud of his cleverness, but it had often seemed that very quality had caused him little more than pain.  
Suddenly he dropped the brush he had been holding. A jolt passed through him and he had no strength in his hands. He knew the touch of that probe and he cried out, wondering what he had done to deserve punishment. He dropped to his knees as the probe touched his legs and another jolt travelled through him. "Master?" he called, "Master, what have I done?"

A jolt hit him on the chest and he cried out in pain, rolling over as best he could. It struck him yet again, but he caught a glimpse of his tormentor, shocked to see it was Arlen. Her face was contorted with fury and he could not understand what he had done to her, he had not known she had such hatred for him. He heard her screaming, but the words hardly made sense, all he could grasp was that he was a danger and that his mere existence was an abomination, though to whom and why he could not understand.

"Madam! Madam, please stop!" Avon no longer dared fight back, even if he could reach the probe, but that was impossible. "Beloved Master, why is she doing this?"

Avon had not exactly intended his cry to activate the comlink, though he had indeed been addressing it to the one person he believed would perhaps listen and had the power to stop her. He was surprised therefore when a shot rang out and Arlen's body collapsed across him. He fell silent almost in mid scream, seeing his master's shoes.

Abruptly he was freed from her weight and lifted upright. "Are you all right?"

"Yes ... yes, Master." Avon got his breath back. "Thank you, Master." He looked down at the woman. "Is she dead?"

"I'm afraid so." The taller man hefted the gun. "Old fashioned projectile weapon, all I had to hand."

"You killed her, Master?"

"Of course, slave. You are reliant on me. It is my duty to take care of you."

Jarvik arrived at a run. "What the ...."

"Remove the body, Jarvik."

"What happened?" The blond stared down at the dead woman.

"She attacked my slave, I killed her. Take the body away." He looked back at the slave. "Get on with your work, slave."

"Master?"

"Go on with you, now. I'll see you later."

***

All that day Avon had been looking around, almost expecting some other dreadful thing to happen to him. In comparison the evening seemed quite normal, he served his master dinner and to his joy was permitted to help him bathe.

After drying himself the slave turned to lie on his pallet in the corner, but felt his master take him by the wrist. He looked up and waited for his instructions obediently. "The bed," said his master softly, "get it ready."

His heart beat faster, but he did as he had been asked, turning the covers back. He felt his master's hands on his shoulders and turned to face him in response to the unspoken command. He leaned forward and Avon turned his face up expectantly. Their lips met and Avon allowed his master to explore his mouth with the soft invasive force of his tongue. The kiss was commanding and Avon found this oddly thrilling. He felt his master's arms go around him and he was aware of his hips being pulled to meet the other's, the big hands were flat, open, fingers spreading over his buttocks.

The slave rested his hands on his master's shoulders, then put his arms round him loosely as the light kisses continued. It was clear his master was an expert at this and Avon responded to his knowledge and his leadership. Finally he was moved away, and Avon gave a shy smile.

Pressure on his shoulders indicated that the slave should kneel at his master's feet and Avon complied with the demand immediately. "Now, slave. Suck me."

The cock was big, bigger than Avon's and he was impressed as he had been when bathing him with it's unbridled masculinity. His hands still in those of his master he opened his mouth and took the wonderful bulk of it inside. He had never done this before, and had to trust that allowances would be made for his lack of expertise, but he had read of the act and had experienced it himself as recipient. As he himself enjoyed he teased the head with his tongue, rolling back the foreskin as best he could and then taking the organ in deeper. It hardened still more and he was stimulated by the size of it, the power and the strength.

Gently his master pulled free and indicated with his hands that Avon should stand, kissing him again when he was upright, then pushing him backwards towards the bed. With one hand the taller man opened a jar of cream on the table by the bed. "Lie down, on your back," he ordered.

"Master?"

"Go on, slave. Lie down on the bed."

Avon complied with the instruction, trustingly.

"Now, open your legs and raise your knees."

Avon did so, pleased when his master smiled at the picture he displayed. "Quite beautiful," he complimented.

"Now, take some of the cream on your fingers. Yes, like that. I want to fuck you, but I don't want to get hurt. Whether I hurt you will depend on how well you prepare yourself for me. Open your arse with that cream, I'll tell you when to stop."

It was a minor gymnastic feat for Avon, who had never considered this as a possibility, but he slid his fingers, first one then another into his arse. He could see his master watching him, his huge cock was hard, and as Avon watched it wept a clear tear, indicating the extremity of his need. Avon expected to be instructed to stop, but the order did not come and he continued with the exploration of his own body, an unexpectedly thrilling feeling.

The master lay down on the bed beside him and Avon stilled his fingers, but his master whispered, "No, go on." He could feel his master's breathing quicken beside him, heard his murmur, "Gods, you are so beautiful."

His voice rose slightly, "Stop now, slave."

Avon removed his hand and his master took some of the cream on his fingers and lubricated his own cock. He took his time over this, permitting the slave to watch him take pleasure in touching himself, underlining the fact that the slave was a convenience. At last he reached for him, starting by kissing him on the mouth, gently touching his face and Avon could smell the sweetness of the cream he had been using still on his hand.

He opened to the kisses willingly, his master's mouth was warm and loving. Avon felt his hand taken and placed around his master's hard cock; he was guided in the first few strokes but then continued the touches automatically.

Then he could feel his master moving over him, kneeling between his legs, positioning him for penetration, entering him slowly. Distracted by caresses he had no thought to spare for pain, it simply never had the chance to occur to him that the act might hurt, the long hard penis slid into him smoothly and freely, and took full possession of his body. Avon slid his arms around his master and spread his fingers to feel the muscles bunch and flex with his powerful thrusts.

The slave became so involved with his master's responses, contracting his internal muscles to increase his pleasure, relaxing to prolong the act, that he forgot his own. His orgasm was as much mental as physical but it took him almost by surprise and the other followed quickly, hot wet spurts filling his arse.  
When it was over his master permitted him to roll into his arms, to gain comfort there and the slave smiled, his joy complete.

***

Avon was accustomed to sleeping on the ground and waking on the bed beside his master caused him some momentary disorientation; for a second he had believed he was going to fall.

A slap on his rump jerked him into total wakefulness. "Fetch breakfast, slave."

So their relationship hadn't changed at all, he had merely extended the services he performed. He strove for sarcasm, for the hatred that had always come so easily, but all he felt was a relief he refused to examine too closely.

His master washed quickly and alone, but Avon was allowed to help him finish dressing. This done he sat on the floor while the other ate, thinking about the night they had spent together. He did not feel he had been raped, it was more as if he had been used, like a chair or a bath and he supposed he ought to feel something at the thought, some resentment, but all he was conscious of was gratitude. He had been permitted to serve and he was content.

When he had cleared away and washed the dishes, he entered to find his master sitting at the desk and he turned to look at the slave. Avon realised he had not been given his orders for the day and wondered what they would be.

"Kneel down."

Avon dropped to the floor instantly.

"Open your legs a little more and sit back on your heels. Rest your hands on your thighs. Good. Remember that position, it's for taking orders and it's what I mean when I say 'kneel'. Now, stay there."

At first the position was not uncomfortable, but as time passed he became aware of pains in his legs and back and a need to urinate. He was aware also of his exposed genitals, the way his penis hung between his legs and the soft touch of his testicles against his thighs as he shifted minutely. He sighed, he hoped inaudibly. The silence was almost complete, broken only by his master turning paper pages, the occasional click of a computer keyboard as he made a note. He wondered once again what was written there that could possibly be so fascinating. The last time his master had sat in his presence reading it had been while he served a meal and Avon had seen enough to know it was some sort of historical treatise, a report on an archaeological dig that had itself taken place in the late twentieth century.

Finally, the need to urinate grew too great and he spoke. "Master, may I use the bathroom, please?"

"No."

"Master, please?"

"No! Be silent!"

The slave sat silent as commanded, his desperation and his pain increasing until it was all he could do to keep still. His hands were sweating, leaving pink stains on his thighs and he balled them into fists, digging his nails into his palms hoping to distract himself.

"Master, I will piss on the floor," Avon warned.

"That would be a certain way to get yourself whipped," replied the master, unconcerned. "Not to mention the fact that you would have to clean it up."

"You may go now, slave." The need to urinate had overpowered every other pain in his body by the time permission was given and he was so stiff he could barely stand up. He only made it to the toilet by holding his penis shut in one hand and the relief when he finally felt the pent up liquid flow out of him was so intense he almost wept.

He yelped as a harsh blow caught him across his rump. His master stood in the bathroom, holding a thin flexible whip. Avon thought it was one he'd used before, but was not quite sure. Another blow fell and Avon yelled again. "You didn't thank me," he was told, as the whipping continued.

When it finished he was sobbing. "I'm sorry, Master. Thank you, Master."

"Thank me properly. Kneel."

Avon at once took the position he had been shown, legs open, back straight, hands open on his thighs. For a moment he thought his master might require sexual service, but he was standing too far away for that to be his intention. He seemed to be waiting so Avon spoke. "Thank you, Master, for letting me use the bathroom."

"And what else?". The tall man made sure he saw the whip, flexing it in his hands.

"Thank you for punishing me, Master."

The man came closer again, tilting Avon's head up to him with the tip of the whip. "You need to be told when you've done wrong, don't you?"

"Yes, Master," the slave replied, obediently.

"Do you really believe that?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why do you need to be told when you have done wrong?"

"So that I don't do it again, Master."

"Good. There is another reason, do you know what it is?"

Avon said, "No, Master."

The whip caught him across the face, a blow that brought tears to his eyes. "Think! Who are you?"

"My name's Avon ..."

"Wrong!" Another harsh cut with the whip. "Your name is whatever I say it is! Who are you?"

Avon took a deep breath to steady himself. "No one!" he answered.

"Wrong!" The whip caught him a third time. "Who are you?"

This time Avon was less sure of his answer and he knew his voice was wobbly with tears. He despised himself for his weakness. "Your slave?" he offered, hopelessly, wincing in expectation of another blow.

"Well done, slave." The tall man stared down at him and smiled. Taken by surprise the slave smiled in reply. "Stand up." Avon heard the order as if in a dream, but obeyed. "Now, you may wash and shave. Make sure you do so thoroughly."

"Thank you, Master."

Being watched while washing was new, but the slave was so pleased to be allowed to do it at all that he did not find it unpleasant and he would not now have dared to protest even if he had. Avon also dared waste no time over his cleansing and it was quite soon when he faced his master again.

"You haven't finished yet," Avon was told.

"Master?" Avon wasn't sure what he could have missed.

"There's a jar of the cream in there," the master indicated a cupboard. "Part of your routine will be to prepare your body for me. Do it."

Realising what he meant, Avon complied silently.

"It is important you do this," the master told him quietly. "For I will assume that you have. Failure will mean pain for you, when I take you and quite likely it will mean pain for me too. If it does, you will be punished. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"Are you quite sure? Tell me what you have to do?"

"Master I have to be ready for you to fuck me. If I'm not, you'll punish me."

"Good." He looked the slave up and down slowly, then led the way to the bedroom.

"I've given some consideration to how I want you to dress." The master opened a drawer and took out two rectangles of a shimmering black cloth and six metal clips. Avon stared at it silently, this was clothing?

"I will show you this once, and once only. If you need to ask me again or get it wrong, I'll have to punish you."

"Yes, Master."

The tall man demonstrated, a fold on the narrower side of each of the cloths was held in place with four of the clips. These formed the shoulders of the garment and their placing was important. It was then slipped over the head and the other two clips formed the sides, the whole thing looking like a softly draped tabard which reached down to mid-thigh.

Avon looked at himself in the mirror, the garment suited him, and he could see his master, clad in cream once again and forming an impressive contrast, smiling behind him. He put a hand on the slave's shoulder and turned him, still smiling. "Not for too long. You are beautiful, but an arrogant or affected slave is an abomination." He pulled Avon towards him, grasping his upper arms and kissing him forcefully.

The slave relaxed into the embrace. After a few moments he was introduced to another advantage this curious style of dress offered; it could be ripped from his body with the minimum of effort.

"Master?" he gasped as he was rolled onto his face, on the floor.

His master did not reply, instead he pulled the slave into a kneeling position and readied him for entry, opening his anus with his fingers then thrusting his penis home. The unexpected assault was painful, but Avon accommodated himself to it without too much difficulty, pleased he had been made to prepare himself properly.  
He supposed he ought to be hurt or offended at the way he had been almost brutally used, but he could only feel pleasure at the fact that he had been there for his master when he obviously needed him so badly. Once he was alone, he dressed again and allowed himself a glimpse of the result in the bedroom mirror. He could see that he was slimmer and already better muscled than he had been, a predictable result of the hard physical work he was expected to undertake, but he was still quite delicate when compared with his powerfully built master.

***

The slave's life never seemed to take on any particular pattern, mostly he was permitted to retain the clothing he'd been given, such as it was. Though this was not, as was explained to him, to prevent him being embarrassed but to spare the blushes of any of the base staff he encountered. He worked when and where his master ordered and usually he was given tasks that would directly benefit the master in some way.

It seemed that his master either did not know, or did not care, that he was a computer technician. He never touched one and rarely even saw one. His master had a console in the flat, but it was unusual for him to be there alone and never had he been able to examine it closely.

His chance came quite unexpectedly. He had started to clean the flat, his perpetual task, while his master worked quietly at his desk. A message had come through on the comlink from control central, a possible intruder report, and his master had gone out without comment, leaving Avon alone polishing the mirrors.  
Avon crossed to the console and sat down at the desk. He was afraid. He could not remember being afraid of a computer before, he had grown up with them around him, had always seen them as tools for his use and nothing more.

The codes guarding access were reasonably simple and Avon had no trouble hacking through into the datacodes. These too were reasonably simple, but Avon delayed unaccountably, prey to a feeling that he shouldn't be doing this. It was easy, too easy, and he looked round half expecting his master to have come back.

The flat was empty and silent, but Avon continued to feel that there was something there, an unseen observer. He fought the sensation off and keyed in the sequence that would break the datacodes and access the core records. He was sure there was someone watching him, this time he actually crossed the room and drew the light beige curtains over the windows. He knew the garden was inaccessible to all but his master and scoffed at his fears. Perhaps he was afraid some seabird would see him, and tell his master what he was doing. Holding the curtain, Avon had a sudden vision of the way his master had looked the day he'd seen him from the flat above, staring out over the sea as if deep in thought, then looking up. There was no recognition in him this time, just an unaccountable feeling of sadness, as if he - the slave - were for some reason no longer there to offer the other comfort. The scene almost brought tears to his eyes and he had to force himself to finish drawing the curtains and go back to the desk.

As he accessed the records he could feel that inside he was crying, a voice in his mind kept whispering to him, and at first he could not hear the words, then did not want to. 'Betrayer,' the voices called him, 'Judas', and he kept taking his hands off the keys to wipe away tears that weren't there. He searched the personnel records for one in particular and at last he found it, or he thought he had. Before he could read it, or even be sure it was the right one, his finger touched the display-erase key and he stared at the blank screen for a moment in disbelief. He could not remember having done such a thing in his life before, it was so stupid and he raged at himself. The voices in his mind did not let go so easily, not until he closed access and switched the console off, then he leaned back in the chair conscious of nothing but relief.

He picked up the cloth and returned to his polishing, careful to make sure he did it properly as if trying to wipe away the memory of his actions. His master was not away long, it seemed that the alert had been one of the frequent alarms and he came back cheerful, with a smile and a kiss for his slave

Spontaneous affection was rare, and the slave always prized it, but this time he had too heavy a heart. He knew he had done wrong and that rather than kisses he deserved whatever punishment his master would mete out to him.

The taller man went back to the desk as if to continue with his work, but the slave knew it could not wait, he could not carry on with this load of guilt hanging over him and he would rather face his punishment sooner and get it over with, than later and have it waiting for him all day.

With trepidation he approached the chair where his master sat and knelt, slowly. The man looked busy, but the slave found the courage to speak. "Master ... I ... I must tell you something."

"Yes?" It had taken a little time for his attention to turn to the slave, but he put his work down and looked at the kneeling man.

"I ... I have disobeyed you." There, he'd said it, and he instantly felt a little better.

"I see. What did you do?"

"I ..." It was difficult to admit it and he struggled to find the words. "I used the computer."

"What for?"

"I wanted ... to find out ... about you. I'm sorry, Master."

"You deserve to be punished don't you?"

"Yes, Master."

For a moment his master said nothing and Avon hardly dared breathe in case it should anger him further. Then he was handed a key. "Go to my drawer," the slave instantly knew what he meant, "and fetch me the whip you think you deserve."

Silently, Avon complied. The drawer slid open with a soft grate, and the slave looked inside. There was a choice of four whips, ranging from a heavy and brutal looking device to a light, wicked, plaited one. He knew that two had been used on him before, the lightest and the lighter of the two medium weights, and both had stung badly. He chose the lighter of the two he had not yet felt and carried it to his master, hoping his shaking hands did not show.

The master took it from him and placed it on the desk. He stood and turned the slave round, removing his clothing and binding his wrists behind him.

Avon felt his mouth go dry and his heart beat faster, he recognised fear and ... anticipation.

"Kneel." The order was softly delivered, but Avon knew by now that the will behind it was adamantine, and did not dare disobey. He knelt, presented his rump and readied himself as much as he could for the first blow. Suddenly there were shoes in front of his face, the master had moved round to stand in front of him. "Kiss my feet." The slave complied at once, touching his lips to the leather of the shoes. "Lick them." He did his best, his mouth dry and the further drying action of the leather made him feel slightly sick and he controlled his reaction brutally; he would be whipped into next week if he vomited over his master's shoes.

"Stop. Are you a good slave?"

It was a few moments before Avon was able to speak. "No, Master," he admitted sadly.

"You are a bad slave, aren't you?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why are you a bad slave?"

"I ... I disobeyed my Master."

"Why did you disobey?"

"I was curious, Master. I wanted to find out about you."

The master turned the slave's face up with the point of the whip, indicating that he should sit back on his heels. "How did disobedience make you feel, slave?"

"Frightened, Master. And ... guilty." It was the truth, but it sounded to him as if he were begging for mercy.

"Do you deserve to be punished? To feel my whip?"

"Yes, Master."

"Can you think of a reason why I shouldn't whip you?"

"No, Master." Avon looked down, sure his master would start the beating now. Hoping he would, so he would have it over with.

"I have a disobedient slave. Do you know how shamed that makes me feel?"

The slave risked a glance up. "No, Master," his whispered. He had not even considered the bare idea that his behaviour might reflect on his master.

"You have told me of your transgression yourself. I have decided that deserves recognition. As your reward I will not beat you, this time."

The slave was overjoyed. "Master, thank you."

The master cut the bindings on his wrists and turned him back. "Don't disobey me, slave. I like to care for you and it is hard to care for a disobedient slave."

Glowing with his master's appreciation Avon said, "I won't do it again, Master."

The master hugged him gently. "I'm sure you won't"

***

The waves pounded on the shore below, the slave could hear them even through the study window and if he looked up from his task he could see rain tracking its way down the plastiglass and heavy clouds moving fast across a dark grey sky. The room was bright and warm, he had worked hard on it and was now putting the finishing touches that he knew would please his master.

The bowl in his hands shone. He liked to keep the master's ornaments looking nice and silver was a special pleasure; this piece, a glass dish with a silver rim, being one of his favourites. The glass reflected the lamp light as if it were diamonds and the silver was burnished to a rare shine.

He put it on the real wood desk and admired the result. The whole flat was clean and welcoming, everything in place and the knowledge that his master would be happy with him made him content.

End.


End file.
